


then good is death (if love, for it, grows too)

by newvision



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Historical, Enemies to Friends, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-08-23 04:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newvision/pseuds/newvision
Summary: a series of retellings of an ancient love.





	1. by too great splendor is his name attended; to blame is easier than those who him offended

**Author's Note:**

> oh there was absolutely no reason for this but i was so very tempted.
> 
> thank you to amber and aves and cat and everyone who watched and contributed as this idea went from a series of a harmless jokes to...whatever this is. 
> 
> also, just a note: each of the title sections + the title of this whole thing are from michelangelo's sonnets, which are just so wonderful and so heartbreaking. if anyone's interested, that is. (which you probably aren't, but i couldn't resist)

i.  **by too great splendor is his name attended; to blame is easier than those who him offended**

 

“And what exactly do you think I can make of a painter?” Wonwoo muses, stretching on his stool as the man before him sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Seungcheol, ever the mediator, stands unmoving in the face of Wonwoo’s haughty dismissal, his inflated ego causing yet another humongous pain-in-the-arse problem for Seungcheol. He’s reminded himself countless times that his job was that of a patron-client mediator, not a babysitter; and yet, he always finds himself circling back to Wonwoo. Mainly because the latter was one of the most highly commissioned artists in all of Florence, and was equally notorious for rejecting nearly all of his potential - which is where he comes in.   

 

“Nobody’s asking you to do anything with him,” Seungcheol emphasises again, doing everything he can to keep from letting the frustration seep into his tone. Wonwoo would pounce on that immediately, and that would be the end of any kind of rational negotiation. “The Medicis are just asking you to work _alongside_ him, not collaboratively,” he tries again, but already it appears he’s lost Wonwoo. The other man has paused, leaning his weight on the hand stretched lazily out behind him. Seungcheol notes the bones jutting daintily out of his wrists, and wonders distantly when the last time Wonwoo ate was.

 

“Who’d you say he was, again?” Wonwoo asks, quirking a dark eyebrow at Seungcheol. “And you’re absolutely sure we’ll be working separately? I won’t have to paint a mural whilst lying flat on my back for 9 hours straight, will I?”

 

“That’s...oddly specific,” Seungcheol acknowledges, frowning, but he accepts it as another one of Wonwoo’s eccentricities. “His name is Kwon Soonyoung. And no, there’s no chance you’ll have to work with him. Here, I have your contract if you’d like to take a look,” Seungcheol supplies, drawing the bound stack of paper from his cloth messenger bag and thrusting it unceremoniously towards Wonwoo, who accepts it with a reluctant, dust-covered hand.

 

“They’ve already drawn up the contract? They must be keen,” Wonwoo remarks, his alert eyes already scanning the page eagerly for the fortune of florins he’d be getting for his work.

 

“Why wouldn’t they be? The Church pretty much put you on the map after that amazing sculpture you carved for the cardinal,” Seungcheol rationalises, but stops himself short when he sees Wonwoo’s expression sour.

 

“That’s not how I wanted this to play out. And the fucking Pietà of all things…” Wonwoo shakes his head, and Seungcheol’s eyes are immediately drawn to the specks of fine plaster dust that have nestled their way into his dark locks. He’s been working again, a good sign.

 

After pouring all of his lifeblood into the Pietà, Wonwoo had gone into a worrying slump - when all of Rome had called it the most beautiful statue to exist in all the realms, Wonwoo had crumbled. One would think that being a man at his level of skill, his ego would’ve been fanned by this outpouring of adoration. Instead, the fame and glory only made him curl into himself even more than before. For months, he’d hacked angrily at slabs of marble, unable to force his hands into complying with his will, because beyond his desire to produce was an indestructible fear that nothing would never be as good as the Pietà. ‘What’s left?’ he’d wondered endlessly. ‘After this, what will I be good for ever again?’  

 

All these years later, he’s still never been able to shake the fear that when people look at him, they see a myth instead of a man. He put himself on a pedestal he can’t get a steady grip on, and every day he lives in fear of how the world will watch as he falls from it.

 

“It was supposed to be a holy image, and I destroyed it. Signing it was moronic,” Wonwoo tells Seungcheol curtly, going back to idly scanning the contract. The other man looks at him passively,  not sure what to make of Wonwoo like this - shifting from disciplined to broken in a matter of minutes. Sensing his discomfort, Wonwoo tosses the contract back to him, and Seungcheol catches it in a fumble of hands. “You can tell them to shove their contract up their asses if they want any biblical figures. I don’t do that anymore.”

 

“Oh my god, Wonwoo, did you even read anything beyond what they’re paying you?” Seungcheol complains, as he tries to flip to his desired page. “They just want you to sculpt the likenesses of a few of the family members. Then, if time allows, a couple of Greek mythological figures. You can manage that, can’t you?”

 

“Well, sure. But you know, when it’s this, it’s-” Wonwoo begins, his eyes already hardening dangerously.

 

“Your way or the highway, yes,” Seungcheol deadpans, rolling his eyes. Then, with slightly more enthusiasm: “Does this mean you’re taking it?”

 

“I suppose so,” Wonwoo concedes, and Seungcheol’s face splits into a grin in spite of himself. Wonwoo may be far too angry to change, but Seungcheol can’t help but hold out hope for him anyway.

 

**ii. Who eyes great beauty through a grief as great /** **sees only his suffering soul, racked with anxiety**

 

Wonwoo stands in front of Palazzo de Medici a few days later, the cold wind snipping greedily at his exposed collarbones. The house itself stands imposing and unyielding to the elements, a stark contrast to the miniscule citizens that hunch as they scamper about, looking for shelter. Determined to stand out, Wonwoo draws himself up to his full height, his tools clinking reassuringly in the bag that hangs loosely from his shoulders. He will not bow. Not today, and certainly not in front of these people, who would surely like nothing more than to see him fail. After all, the world was made of two kinds of people - with him, or against him. And as far as he remembers, there isn’t a single person behind him now.

 

So, no. He’s going to stride in and prove them all wrong by carving them the most terrifyingly beautiful sculpture they’ve ever seen.

 

After all, wasn't that what beauty was? Terror, the tightening of one’s gut at the sight of a man he wants but cannot have? Beauty, he thinks. What a strange, painful thing.

 

Tilting his head up, he gathers his garments around his frame before he strides in, the cold light of the morning flitting across his features as he stands in the middle of the Palazzo’s square, admiring the stark contrast in colours of the columns around him. They dip and flow, blending into one another so naturally it’s _almost_ believable that they sprung into existence just like that.

 

Wonwoo may not have been an artist for long, but he knows better than anyone not to fall into such silly traps. The perfection of the Palazzo de Medici is jarring, but far from beautiful. Every single structure lacks vitality. The columns may blend into each other with perfect technicality, but they seem to sigh under the weight of the house and the family they hold. The stone, worn after years of exposure, seems to sag under the heaviness of his gaze, the contempt he holds behind his eyes.

 

Perhaps the worst of all is the sculpture that greeted him the minute he’d stepped in. In the entrance to Palazzo de Medici stands the figure of a man, his weight leaning on his left foot as he strides forward; representing the epitome of action and determination. His eyes are hard and intense, but they gaze at nothing and no one. Anatomically, he is perfect. His veins bulge under the marble, and his toes curl ever so slightly in their frozen position.

 

Which is precisely the problem. Wonwoo is seeing marble, not skin. He sees a frozen, stolen moment, not a life. It’s lacking in every sense of the word, and can unfortunately no longer be salvaged. Which is a pity, really, he thinks as he eyes the sculpture’s curls with disdain. He could’ve been an angel of a man.

  


“Mr. Jeon?” a clear voice calls from across the square, startling him from his thoughts. He lifts an eyebrow at the figure advancing hurriedly towards him in a flurry of tattered cream robes, a boy with an open expression and cheeks rosy from the cold.

 

“Who’s asking?” Wonwoo quips back, giving the boy a once over. He can’t be older than eighteen, but already he’s in servitude to the most powerful family in Florence. This is a boy who owes someone more than he can pay. Already, Wonwoo pities him for it. This city is unforgiving, and won’t spare him much more than a single, dismissive glance even after he repays his debt. Only if the boy were to lead a revolution in art, in politics, in love - they’d sing his praises from the rooftops, pick him up off the cobbled squares and throw him into the arms of a lavish lifestyle that he was never, ever meant for.

 

Wonwoo should know. He was like that once, too.

 

But this story isn’t about that. He turns back to face the servant boy, and tries not to look too hard, lest he see what he should’ve been reflected back up at him. (A question he’d rather not ask: who would I be? Who would I be, if the world didn’t deem me worthy?)  


“Mr Kwon was curious about your arrival,” the boy tells him, and already his eyes are twinkling brightly at the very notion of being of some use to Wonwoo. “He’s asked me about you at least 15 times in the last half hour, actually,” the boy continues sheepishly, a hand coming up to scratch at his head self-consciously.

 

“Has he now?” Wonwoo asks, raising an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware he was acquainted with my work,” he remarks, a burst of pride already sparking in his chest.

 

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think he’s a fan,” the boy tells him, his expression now apologetic and almost crestfallen.

 

“What makes you say that, uh…?” Wonwoo cuts himself off short, looking at the boy expectantly. It’s hit him that he hasn’t got a clue what this young fellow’s name is, and usually that wouldn’t faze him, but this one time - it feels like it matters.

 

“Chan,” the boy tells him, straightening his shoulders slightly. “Lee Chan.”

 

“Alright then, Lee Chan, what makes a servant boy like you come to the conclusion that a fellow artist doesn’t like my work?” Wonwoo sneers, an edge of his cruelty rearing its ugly head. He can’t help it - the absence of adoration isn’t something he’s used to. It makes him cruel and vindictive at best, miserable and hollow at worst. His work was as good as his Self - if that was lacking, how would he ever be able to promise anything ever again?

 

“Because I told him I didn’t,” a drawling voice interrupts, presumably coming from the figure that’s emerged from the pillars just behind the servant boy.

 

The man wears a spritely grin, overflowing with mischief and the distinct hum of a life being lived at full brightness. His hair falls in dark locks over elfish ears, and the clothes he dons are a deep, forest green, flowing over loose black pants. There are splotches of paint mapping the clothes like constellations Wonwoo can’t place or name, and already he’s at a loss of what to make of this person.

 

“ _You’re_ this..this Mr. Kwon?” Wonwoo sputters out, his eyebrows already knitting themselves into a frown. Frustratedly, he huffs at a strand of curly hair that’s made its’ way into his eye right at the height of this theatrical moment, disspelling it effectively.

 

“That would be me, yes,” Mr. Kwon confirms , flashing Wonwoo another grin which reveals to him a perfect row of straight teeth. He comes from money, then. “But you can just call me Soonyoung,” he continues, reaching an outstretched hand to pull Wonwoo towards him. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance,” he whispers, grinning as he leans down to press a soft kiss upon one of Wonwoo’s hollowed cheeks.

 

With widened eyes and a thudding heart, Wonwoo takes an instinctive step backwards, almost tripping in the process. Chan looks just as horror-struck, excusing himself quickly.

 

In this time, in this space, men don’t kiss each other in public. Not when they’re friends, not when they’re lovers, and certainly not when they’re nothing at all.

 

“I would say the same,” Wonwoo starts, a shaking hand already pressed to his cheek, “but I’d be lying, wouldn’t I?”

 

“And why’s that?” Soonyoung asks, tilting his head to the side to fix Wonwoo with a curious gaze. Already, he hates how open and innocent and _charming_ he looks, acting like he doesn’t have a clue what he’s done.

 

“You insult my work before we’ve even met, and then you do something crazy...for what purpose?” Wonwoo snaps, his fist now clenching against his face. He rubs it roughly, hating how his cheeks are already burning.

 

“Doesn’t your work already tell me everything I need to know?” Soonyoung muses, tapping a finger against his chin, feigning contemplation. “And who said there were rules against admiring beautiful things?”

 

“What in the _world_ are you talking about?” Wonwoo cries, gritting his teeth in frustration. A frigid wind has begun blowing through the square, scooping up the fallen leaves in a spiral around them in a morbid dance filled with death.

 

“I’m saying - you’re beautiful, but your work doesn’t appeal to me. Simple as that,” Soonyoung explains, but he sounds so carefree that Wonwoo’s jaw drops involuntarily.

 

“How can you just say that?” he blurts, his eyelashes fluttering as he blinks rapidly, already trying to hold back traitorous tears of anger. “I’m not the same man I was when I made the Pietà, how dare you hold me to that?”

 

“The way you’re reacting tells me everything I need to know,” Soonyoung murmurs, his eyes now scanning Wonwoo contemplatively. “Arrogant as ever. What a shame.”

 

With a hot pool of shame burning in his chest, Wonwoo watches Soonyoung stride away, his enormous clothes whipping around him in the wind that seems to be howling with a vengeance. Something tears in him at the sight of the paintbrushes sticking out of Soonyoung’s pocket, lending him an air of carefree innocence despite the venom of his words. Already, Wonwoo dreads this assignment.

 

So it’s with heavy feet and a heavier heart that he drags himself to the foyer, where Chan waits expectantly. Wonwoo refuses to meet his eye as they walk.


	2. for hearts that shrink or swell, alike will break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for a brief description of a panic attack in this chapter, please proceed with caution!

**iii.** **for hearts that shrink or swell, alike will break**

 

He may be one of the most formidable sculptors in Florence, but Wonwoo trembles throughout his meeting with Lorenzo. Something about his meeting with the painter - with _Soonyoung_ \- had set him off-kilter, throwing him off a path he was so used to walking. No one’s spoken to him like that in a long time. Soonyoung has made him a hurt little boy again, and Wonwoo has to hold back a shudder at the memory of his knees painfully scraping the wooden floorboards of his childhood home, barely able to listen as his father rips up stacks and stacks of his painstakingly-detailed sketches. They’d been his first anatomical sketches, the curve of his mother’s arm as she prepared dinner, the rise in his brother’s clavicle as he tilted his head up to look at the sky. Years and years of art; all created out of passion, all destroyed because Wonwoo hadn’t been able to hold himself back from boastfulness. He’d wanted to tell the world he was an artist, and that was the price he paid for it. Which is why it hurts to be told that perhaps he never did learn his lesson, after all.

 

And the kiss, holding him hostage in that tormented frame of mind. In his head, Soonyoung’s touch is the colour of the forest after a storm, the same deep green as his robes had been the minute he’d swept into Wonwoo’s life and ruined it - all in a matter of seconds. Wonwoo keeps bringing his hand up, trying to rub the imagined colour off, wondering if his fingers will be stained too, if he’s only spreading the contagion. This is not the right place for that, he has to remind himself time and time again. It will never be the right place for tenderness, when it comes to Wonwoo. This, on the other hand, is something he is learning.

 

Later, in the red room, Lorenzo tells him to sketch a likeness of him, just for a quick judgement of his skill. Wonwoo is nearly forced to grip his wrist in order to lower his pencil to the paper. The lines he makes are rushed, messy, terrified. The ghost of the man he produces on the parchment is a far cry from the standard he’s used to. Looking at it makes him want to scream and send blocks of marble crashing down in a cacophony of sound that’ll hopefully drown out how far he’s felt himself fall, because it simply isn’t good enough. Of course he knows every artist has their off days, and not every piece will have a perfect diamond shining within it. Then again, he isn’t every artist, so he can’t afford to be making that kind of mistake. The most powerful family in Florence wouldn’t have asked for him specifically if he was every artist. He’s supposed to be special. This was his one chance at redemption, to show the world who he was as an artist, not just a man. His previous sculpture was a record of a mistake; the mistake of who he was, of leaving too much of himself in the art. That couldn’t happen again.

 

The ghost on the parchment stares back at him, hollow eyes peering out from the paper, seeing and unseeing all at once. Technically, he’s perfect. But when Wonwoo looks at the sketch, all he sees is the empty figure in the Palazzo square. He crumples the paper in his fist, waiting to feel the scrap of its sharp edges against his palm, begging for the sensation to thrust him back to Earth. But as he hears the paper crinkle under the pressure, he can barely feel a thing. The red walls of the room are starting to look like the rawness of a maw, gaping open to swallow him whole.

 

When he finally stumbles out of the room with a barely audible breath of gratitude, he finds himself out in the square again, alone this time. He has to slump against the cool walls of the house, the pillars of marble digging painfully into his shoulder blades as he begs it to hold him up, for once. His cloth-bound sketchbook is still clutched in a single, shaking, sweaty palm. He grimaces at the imprint of sweat he’s left on it’s pristine cover - why can’t he stop overflowing? Why does his body feel so very, very small?

 

From his slouched position, he imagines himself shrinking, disappearing. It starts with his legs. He stares hard at the worn soles of his shoes, the same broken brown boots that have kept him company all these years. He hasn’t changed them since he began his apprenticeship 6 years ago, with Ghirlandaio - he’d brought them with the earnings from his very first commission. They once served as a reminder of the place he’d have to earn in the world, a motivator; now, they’re just a sobering reminder of his presence in it. He imagines them disappearing, starting with the toes and working his way up to his ankles. His legs go, then his hips, then his torso. He imagines a tingling sensation running up his body, devouring steadily at each part of him. He shrinks and shrinks and shrinks until he is nothing more than a speck, vanishing away his eyes, his ears, his heart. Finally, there is peace.

 

That is, until a meek voice calls “Mr. Jeon?”

 

Wonwoo’s eyes snap open immediately, his lashes peeling themselves apart from the tears that cling to them. In his panic, he’d barely noticed that he was crying. He doesn’t even remember the last time he did. He blinks rapidly, begging God to not let Chan notice his watery eyes, the tear tracks on his cheek. He doesn’t doubt that the boy would give him hell for it, especially after how he’d treated him earlier.

 

Instead, he gets an “Are you alright?” and a concerned once-over. Chan is scanning his face far, far too closely and Wonwoo has the distinct sensation of overflowing all over again, his guts spilling all over the perfectly clean courtyard. That’s all he’s good for, marring things. He scoffs, righting himself quickly.

 

“Fine,” he grunts, picking his discarded bag off the floor just so he won’t need to look at Chan. The other boy is still watching him, though, so Wonwoo makes a show of rifling through his bag with shaking hands, looking for something that isn’t there.

 

“Uh, would you like me to show you to the studio?” Chan offers, his eyes darting to the other side of the courtyard, from which a chilly wind blows through.

 

“That’d be perfect,” Wonwoo agrees, snapping his head up. A studio would surely grant him some peace and quiet, enough time to sit with his chisel and hammer and hack away at all the parts of himself he didn’t like. Yes, he thinks, some solitude will do him good.

 

Chan leads him down an ornate corridor, lined with beautifully framed paintings, portraits of previous members of the family. All along the corridor, the walls are painted that same unholy shade of deep red as Lorenzo’s room, the darkness of the shade making the walls press in again. Wonwoo swallows hard, and speeds up his pace, as the ancient eyes of human history stare him down.

 

Finally, they come to a door at the end of the very, very long corridor. Distantly, Wonwoo wonders how in the world he’s going to get himself up and down that thing multiple times a day without having his whole world collapse, but decides that it’s a problem for future him to deal with. For 500 ducats, he’ll panic as much as as the Medici house will make him. Money requires sacrifice, after all.

 

Unfortunately, the sacrifice he doesn’t count on having to make comes in the form of a certain Kwon Soonyoung. When Chan pushes open the studio door with a flourish to announce his arrival, his jaw drops. Sitting by an easel in the center of the room is none other than said painter, his pants bunched up at the ankles in what Wonwoo assumes is a desperate attempt to get some relief from the stuffiness of the bowels of the house. He’s hunched over his easel initially, tongue sticking out in concentration as he renders memorized details. In fact, he barely even glances up when the door opens. For some reason, this lack of acknowledgment doesn’t give Wonwoo any relief; he still isn’t convinced that he hasn’t landed himself in the middle of a battlefield. Don’t turn your back, he tells himself. It seems a little too convenient that that’s where the knife always lands.

 

He freezes, his eyes immediately drawn to the shock of paleness at the painter’s ankles amidst the stormy palette of his attire. Instinctually, Wonwoo thinks of pressing his mouth to it, drawn in by the way the skin there looks just like marble. He wonders if it’ll feel just as cold.

 

The shock of the thought wrenches him out of that strange space of mind, to the reality where Soonyoung is now smiling somewhat hesitantly at him, but smiling all the same.

“Thought you’d never come,” Soonyoung says, in lieu of a proper greeting. Wonwoo remains standing at the door, his fist still clenched around the strap of his bag to the point that he’s nearly white-knuckled. Chan clears his throat awkwardly, bowing slightly before he slides away, shutting the door behind him with a resounding ‘thud’. There’s a beat of frigid silence that doesn’t sit well in the cosy room, home for the artists for the next couple months at least . The sandy brown walls sag at the hostility flowing from Wonwoo to Soonyoung, the marble pillars molding themselves into a question mark - if only to ask Wonwoo, why is it you think you’re too angry to change? Have you tried being anything but this?

 

To which Wonwoo replies, _I have. I’ve tried so many times, but I don’t think there’s anything left that I can change. I will always be this way, this version of myself to the people who know me_. Soonyoung is one of those people.

 

The marble whispers that there’s a difference between knowing and encountering, but Wonwoo is already too hurt to hear.

 

“Wasn’t sure I was coming,” Wonwoo continues curtly, still backed against the door like a wounded animal. He’s bracing himself already, waiting for the next snide comment, for Soonyoung to throw him to the ground and step on his spine, breaking him down bit by bit. The blow never comes. Instead, Soonyoung frowns at him, and has the nerve to ask why.

 

“After what you said, you’d be mad to think I’d want to be cooped up with you,” Wonwoo scoffs, clicking his tongue at he turns away stubbornly. He misses the horror that flits across Soonyoung’s expression, instead choosing to fix his gaze on the marble flooring. A strand of his fringe falls into his face, again, and he has to tuck away the curl with a scowl.

 

“I’m sorry?” Soonyoung replies, but it comes out as more of a question than an apology. “Was it not the truth?”

 

 _It was the truth_ , Wonwoo thinks. _That’s the problem._

 

“Do you speak to everyone you meet for the first time like that?” he huffs, crossing his arms.

 

“No. Just you,” Soonyoung replies, and deep in the pit of his heart, Wonwoo thinks of how much he hates that stupid grin that makes the painter’s full cheeks squish adorably. And just to kill two birds with one stone, he curses how Soonyoung manages to make him feel special, even when he’s putting him down. His displeasure must  show on his face, though, because Soonyoung relents a minute later.

 

“I’m sorry if I was too harsh, but I had a reason,” Soonyoung defends, turning slightly to face him. His brush is still coated in ultramarine, but Wonwoo purposely keeps his gaze off of the enticing blue. “Everyone knows how you view painters, and I didn’t want you to think you stood a chance at messing with me.”

 

“What do you mean, how I view painters?” Wonwoo repeats, his voice biting and scornful.

 

“Oh, please,” Soonyoung scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Everyone knows you regard painters like the dirt beneath your feet. You think you’re better than everyone else. You’re talented, you know,” Soonyoung starts, turning back to dab a little bit of paint onto the detail of a cloaked figure. “But no one could love you. Artists are meant to do good, to create beautiful things - not to elevate themselves to the status of gods.”

 

Wonwoo’s throat is closing up again, and with hands that never seem to stop fucking shaking, wrenches his bag off his shoulder and chucks it onto the stool across from Soonyoung. The painter watches him silently as he tries multiple times to grab his sketchbook and leave, but his hands are so unsteady he can barely grip it. He stops then, just for a minute, and wonders how in the world he’s going through these next few months - or years - alive.

 

“I’m sorry,” Soonyoung suddenly interrupts, his eyes still very much fixed on Wonwoo’s shaking hands. His body feels too big again, so he shoves his hands deeper into his bag, flinching as he feels the cool metal of the chisel pressing into his skin. It turns to relief a second later, though, relief at the fact that sensation hasn’t deserted him entirely.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Wonwoo breathes out. “You’re right. But it doesn’t matter whether you apologise to me or not.”

 

“And why’s that?”

 

_Because the damage is done. Because you’re right. Because I’m a proud man, but hearing someone else tell me I’ll never be loved is a new kind of hurt that I don’t think I can ever recover from._

 

Instead, Wonwoo shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll never truly feel forgiven by you, so there’s no point in it. Maybe, for the purpose of professionalism, we should just not speak.”

 

Soonyoung opens his mouth to rebuke him for it, his eyebrows already furrowed into a tight frown. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he tells him, and his eyes dart to where Wonwoo’s hands are still trembling behind the safety of his bag. “After all, I’ve heard first impressions are often wrong.” Wonwoo looks to the floor again, wishing it’d open up and swallow him already.

 

“And don’t you think nearly two years of not speaking is a little much?” Soonyoung tries to joke, setting his brush down on its stand and offering Wonwoo a small smile.

 

“Not at all. In fact, I prefer to work in solitude,” Wonwoo rebutts matter-of-factly, before he snaps his head up only to see the expression of complete horror that’s made its way onto Soonyoung’s face. “Usually I would,” he all but _yells_ in his panic. “But we can call a truce, if that’s easier on your sanity.”

 

“That’s funny,” Soonyoung remarks, dangling his fingers over his brushes as he contemplates the right one. “I’d have thought it was more for your sanity.” Wonwoo’s mouth falls open at this, scandalised, and Soonyoung blushes. “Too soon?”

 

“Not at all,” Wonwoo breathes out, the ghost of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. “In fact, I think it’s perfect timing.”

 

Soonyoung beams, and despite the fact that there isn’t a single ray of light coming through the window, Wonwoo has to hold himself back from shielding his eyes.

  



	3. my unassisted heart is barren clay, which of its native self can nothing feed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rain-soaked days and the beginnings of a rivalry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tws for self-deprecating thoughts throughout the chapter (and probably this entire fic, but i'll keep up the warnings if anything does get too dark)
> 
> on another note: if you've seen my twitter (@wonusloveclub) then you know i mentioned wanting to upload the rest of this in one big bulk - which i will be doing, but i also wanted to get this across to anyone who might not have seen, and has ended up waiting for an update D: my apologies!! i may eventually reformat this, but for the most part this will have to do.,,,so enjoy this monster of a follow-up part, i suppose!! if you have any questions about the timeline/relation to factual history, i'd be happy to answer as well (esp since i know i did take some,,,creative liberties with this.)

  1. **i** **my unassisted heart is barren clay, which of its native self can nothing feed**



 

The next few days bring skies full of clouds and not a single ray of warmth. 

 

Usually, the monotony of brown that encases the city is enough of a sore on Wonwoo’s eyes, making him feel like there’s a strange static in his brain that buzzes incessantly as he roves the plain brick of the buildings for some dash of colour, a hint of life. It’s maddening enough that he never finds that relief on regular days, even when sunlight floods the city and makes the facade of every building emit a soft golden hue that hurts his eyes. Wonwoo would think it divine, like the aura of God, had it not been for the way that everything shines far too bright, too glaring, almost garish. Instead, he has to fight the urge to squeeze his eyes shut as he ambles through the city. The cacophony of noise and chaos of smells remain, but at least there would be sweet, sweet relief from the pain of seeing. 

 

When it storms, though, everything turns muddy and sticks to his skin. The sound of rain is peaceful, but on days like that Wonwoo wants nothing more than to climb out of his body, shedding his skin and never looking back. Rain makes everything slippery, makes him think of his feet falling out from under him and the dizzying embrace of concrete against the front of his forehead. There’s a buried memory there, somewhere. It seems so long ago now, to think that he was once a boy who would dash out to play in the rain with his brothers, where the effervescence of the falling drops made them all equal. There, they were no more and no less than each other. The divisions their father established behind the walls of their home simply would not hold in the cold, open air. 

 

But children almost always turn into their parents whether they like it or not, and that’s somehow both a blessing and a curse. For instance, they’ll always have the memory of their father manifesting in the way their tongues curl around words, spitting them forwards with a singsong lilt no matter how much they want to stop the music. Unfortunately, the memory of their father also lies in the words themselves. Wonwoo hasn’t spoken to his brothers in 3 years now. The life of an artist wasn’t so easily accepted by everyone; one of the very first lessons his father had taught him. Still, the nostalgia for childhood stings the back of his sinuses in the smell of cool rain hitting the hot ground, and his eyes water. He sniffs, chalks it up to allergies, and keeps striding. There’s no room for him to stop. 

 

The grass of the gardens squelches under his feet as he darts back to the studio, and he winces, dreading having to scrape the dried mud off his shoes later. The rain’s stopped, but time hasn’t. There’s always work to be done when it comes to Wonwoo. Sighing, he packs every memory of skinned knees and bubbling laughter into the cardboard box of his brain. The box may one day grow soft and wet at the bottom, weighed down after years of rain-soaked memories piled up with the intent of being forgotten, but that’s a problem for a different rainy day.

 

“Are you heading out already?” Soonyoung asks, stretching his hands high above his head with a prodigious yawn as he finally settles onto his stool. His shirt is thin today, a piece of finely cut, sheer black fabric that rides just above his belly button when he stretches. Wonwoo shivers in spite of himself, wondering how in the world Soonyoung isn’t feeling the coldness that seems to have seeped its way into his bones. Maybe it’s because he’s always so at ease _ , _ because the notion of loving is buried within him so he doesn’t have to look for it anywhere else. Wonwoo wonders if he could’ve been that too, if things had been different. If he didn’t have to fight so hard. 

 

Instead, he swallows and answers in the affirmative, before he quietly continues packing his things. The agenda for today is fairly simple - preparatory sketches of one of the senior advisors of the family. They’re simple things, things he should be able to manage with his eyes closed. 

 

“Are you going to work outside?” Soonyoung prompts again, his tone prodding and filled with intent. A vague pinprick of annoyance stabs at Wonwoo’s ribs, and wrinkles his nose as he eyes the painter out of the corner of his eye. Who had this many questions to ask, let alone to Wonwoo? The past few days had been fairly tolerable, with minimal talking, but now it seemed there was an attempt being made to escalate their companionship. Even that seemed to intimate a word. Trying to drive the point home, Wonwoo shoves his supply pouch into his cloth bag before he snaps the silver clasp closed with a sharp ‘click’. Then, glancing at Soonyoung, he raises his eyebrow in what he hopes is a threatening manner. Seungcheol’s told him before that he gets scary when he sulks like this. For his sake, he hopes it intimidates Soonyoung.

 

To his disappointment, the other man is still looking at him, awaiting an answer. To make matters worse, he also looks thoroughly unamused by Wonwoo’s little spectacle, and even goes so far as to ask him if he’s feeling alright, or if he needs the bathroom.  _ Bastard _ , Wonwoo thinks. 

 

“Yes,” Wonwoo finally concedes, looking at the floor and shuffling his feet because Soonyoung’s still looking at him. That’s going to get him in trouble one day, Wonwoo’s sure of it, his little tendency to look and look and look until he finally likes what he sees. Painters can truly be insufferable like that, changing the world to fit their ideas about it. At least Wonwoo has the integrity to make what he sees. At least he isn’t a liar. He sticks with the violence of his reality. Unfortunately, where Soonyoung is optimistic and wants to see the best in everyone, Wonwoo’s attachment to the painful and the broken has made him stand firmly where he is, refusing to yield even if it means greener pastures, for the sake of stubbornness. Their truce has been long forgotten by him now. 

 

“Oh, I’ll join you then! It’ll be nice to have some company,” Soonyoung exclaims, already moving around the studio like a tiny whirlwind in an attempt to gather all his supplies into the limited width of his arms.

 

“No thank you,” Wonwoo declines, silly enough to mistake the statement as a request for permission. “Like I said, I work better alone.” Ignoring Soonyoung’s shock, he tugs his bag onto his shoulder, wincing at the weight. “Don’t wait for me,” Wonwoo calls as he strides out. 

 

“I won’t,” Soonyoung mutters bitterly, pressing his knuckle against the edge of the table - hard enough to hurt. Wonwoo pays him no mind.

  
  


The desire to create works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, it comes in flashes, a burning heat deep within the chest that travels down to the tips of his shaking fingers and won’t rest until there are at least 5 different sketches made in varying states of disorder. Other times, it’s gentler, a nagging pull just behind his heart that makes it stutter with images of the divine, of men without their wickedness. Today, it comes in its worst form - a jitteriness that stays rooted in his hands and renders everything they create absolutely useless. Wonwoo grimaces as he makes another error on the sketch. It’s rough, because they always are. Order exists somewhere in the center of the tempest of his work, and he gets by telling himself this. Within the barely-discernible lines and the smudgy visage of yet another unnamed figure, there’s something to be seen, to be perceived.  Unfortunately, an already difficult feat becomes a million times harder when the very real, unimpressed man before him makes his distaste clear. 

 

Seungkwan, one of Lorenzo’s advisors, is Wonwoo’s subject for today. He’s nowhere near important enough to be getting his likeness sculpted for the Medici garden, which makes him perfect for target practice like this. Wonwoo had taken him for a replaceable higher-up whose face would be forgotten within the next two years, but hadn’t counted on his snarky personality, nor the perfect dip in his cupid’s bow. 

 

“You’re sure you’re an artist?” he’d asked at one point, his blond locks an annoying spot of brightness amidst the wetness of the day. “That looks like something even our most incompetent serving boy could cough up.”

 

Wonwoo has to bite back a scathing retort that festers and burns in his chest for the rest of the afternoon. That’s another lie he likes to tell himself - that there was no truth in the man’s words. And still, within him, his heart pounds painfully. Florence in these times was turning into a cesspool of artistic talents, the greatest minds from all over Europe flocking in for just a taste of the arts and the sciences in their purest form. In the time he spent creating rubble on sketchpad paper, another artist could be getting their wings. Soon, Wonwoo would become just as replaceable as he figured everyone else to be. Creation is a slippery thing like that - first a privilege awarded only to God, it’d slithered all the way down to him as Adam and Eve had tumbled from Eden, the tail of the snake still curled around their ankles in an eternal brace. And for what? All these centuries later, his hands are still as useless. Charcoal to paper, chisel to marble, it’s all the same. The power of creation is too great a burden for a mere man to bear - which is why he never stops reaching for unattainable heights, clambering onto pedestals with slippery feet and scarred knuckles. There was once a time when he did not have to struggle so. But those days belong to a different Wonwoo, the Wonwoo of before; before his desperate scramble for godliness, for praise and for fame. Now, they’re the only things that drive him forward. 

 

When the day gives in to dusk and the rays of the sun have given up trying to break through the clouds, Wonwoo classifies the day as a complete and utter failure. This doesn’t come as a surprise. Nine out of ten days end up as failures in his eyes. He wonders when he’ll learn to stop counting them. 

 

His mood only worsens when he strides into the studio, and is met with Soonyoung’s level gaze. He’s uncomfortably aware of the other man watching his every move - his eyes following the curve of Wonwoo’s shoulder as he lifts his bag, the splay of his fingers as he dumps his materials onto the countertop. Already annoyed, he glances up to meet Soonyoung’s eyes, which are still watching him - but instead of the hostility he’d expected to see after their frigid morning, he’s watching Wonwoo with curiosity, like he’s some kind of spectacle worth seeing.

 

“Is there something you need?” Wonwoo snaps, sitting down heavily. Soonyoung raises an eyebrow, keeping his face straight.

 

“Nothing. I just thought I’d be a good friend and ask what’s bothering you,” Soonyoung answers easily, looking up expectantly at Wonwoo. 

 

“We’re not friends,” Wonwoo responds immediately, flipping his discarded sketchbook open to see if there was anything that could somehow be salvaged. “And nothing’s bothering me, I’m fine.” At his admittance, Soonyoung makes a little huffing noise of annoyance, causing Wonwoo look up sharply. Instead of saying anything when their eyes meet, Soonyoung just gives a sad little shake of his head, and cranes his neck to look at Wonwoo’s work. Abruptly, his face turns soft and confused.

 

“Why does it look like that?” Soonyoung questions, his eyes darting all over the paper like he’ll be able to piece together the discordant figure Wonwoo’s wrangled onto the paper. Immediately, Wonwoo feels the familiar sting of shame, and lets it drown him in its dusty pink hue. He deserves it this time - it’ll be a reminder to never allow himself to sink to such a humiliating position ever again. He lets his head hang, his wavy bangs falling across his eyes just so he won’t have to look at the other man as he answers.

 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Nothing came out right today.”

 

“What if you tried just doing rough sketches in private? It might take some of the pressure off,” Soonyoung offers, tilting his head to the side as he speaks.

 

“It doesn’t work like that for me,” Wonwoo insists, roughly running his fingers through his hair so his bangs stick up everywhere. “It’s not about the technical things. I can’t feel anything. When it comes to my art, I…” he trails off, looking up with uncertainty, like he isn’t sure whether or not he’s boring the other man. Soonyoung, sensing that this is a time more for concern than criticism, leans in and encourages him to continue with a slight smile. Wonwoo looks at his hands instead.

 

“I don’t usually work with real models. I’d just get cadavers and work from there for the anatomy, you know? I thought a real life person posing for me would be easier but it isn’t,” Wonwoo agonizes, already wanting to rip the page from the binding of his sketchbook. “It isn’t at all. I’m supposed to be this great sculptor that everyone adores, but how could I-”

 

“Is that what you think you are?” Soonyoung interrupts, his brows furrowed. “You think you’re this great sculptor who everyone looks up to? No one’s put you on a pedestal except you. You and your own pride,” Soonyoung realizes, his words slowing as he sees Wonwoo’s expression crumple; he’s found some truth, it seems. Wonwoo’s stopped right in the middle of his sentence, his lips still hanging open like the mouth of a freshly-dead fish. There’s a beat of silence as Wonwoo just stares at him like that, his glassy eyes an uncomfortable reminder of how scales look in the sun.  

 

“What the hell is wrong with you,” Wonwoo says, his voice cracked and defeated enough for it to come out as more of a statement than a question. Soonyoung has the nerve to look ashamed, at least, until Wonwoo says: “I thought we were actually going somewhere with this acquaintanceship.”

 

“You didn’t seem to think that this morning,” Soonyoung snorts, rolling his eyes. “So much for our truce, right?”

 

“I only agreed to your stupid truce for the sake of professionalism,” Wonwoo hisses, scrunching his nose in distaste. The truth has made him cruel, aiming desperate blows at every exposed patch of skin that he can reach. “Which if you knew anything about, you’d stop commentating on every aspect of my work. Is it impossible for you to mind your own business?”

 

“Oh, fuck you,” Soonyoung spits out, his eyes hardening. 

 

“What, no witty retort? Have you finally got it through your thick skull that I’m an artist with something to prove, not some fool who throws pretty pigment at a canvas and calls it art?” Wonwoo sneers, his mocking tone cruel enough to make his voice sound like it doesn’t belong to him at all. Soonyoung’s face, on the other hand, has turned unreadable. His eyes are as hard as coal, but behind them there is no fire. Instead, he just watches Wonwoo for a second, frozen in time with that same awful, awful expression on his face. Deep in the crevice of his chest, Wonwoo feels remorseful. He’s never been good with his words, always too prickly, too fast to flare. But even in the knowledge of his error, the words spill out.

 

“I think,” Soonyoung starts, taking a breath before he fixes Wonwoo with a chilly look, “that I work just as hard as you do, if not more. That’s probably why my work’s better, anyway,” he blurts, scowling and unable to resist the jibe. Both boys are throwing punches now, stooping to callous behaviour that rises up in defense of meaningless pride, the same pride that tells them they’ll never need anyone but themselves. Wonwoo despises the light of victory that burns aflame in Soonyoung’s eyes now, thriving off of the colour that’s run into his own cheeks. “After all, I did get extended the contract first. I don’t think it means as much when you’re the only person telling yourself how good you are.”

 

“Fine,” Wonwoo interrupts, his heart pounding. “Since you clearly don’t have any means of perceiving the value of your own work  until someone tells you it’s pretty, we’ll turn it into a competition.” At his proposition, some of the careful rage leaves Soonyoung’s face, and is replaced by the the electricity of ambition.

 

“Go on,” he concedes, folding his arms.

 

“We’ll make it simple. Just sketches,” Wonwoo starts, but already Soonyoung is itching to jump in.

 

“Why not full paintings? Afraid I’ll best you and there’ll be no competition at all?” Soonyoung mocks, but Wonwoo rolls his eyes.

 

“If you want to get sidetracked on the main purpose of our contract and risk termination, be my guest,” Wonwoo offers sarcastically. “God knows it’ll be much more peaceful that way,” he mutters under his breath, but still loud enough for Soonyoung to hear. In response, the painter merely sticks out his tongue at him, a flash of pink between his pale lips that leaves behind a wet sheen. The action is surprisingly child-like and harmless amidst the previous animosity that’d been stirring, and Wonwoo has to hold back a shaky, surprised laugh. He doesn’t know why his hands are trembling again.

 

“Two days, then,” Soonyoung suggests, looking meaningfully at Wonwoo. “Unless you think that it isn’t enough time for you to put together something that’s actually presentable.”

 

“It’s perfectly fine,” Wonwoo agrees quickly, widening his eyes as he continues. “We can draw whatever we’d like, but it has to be a basic sketch since we don’t have much time away from our main duties.”

 

“Fine, fine no painting,” Soonyoung drawls, waving his hand dismissively. “Who should judge? Chan?” 

 

“Absolutely not,” Wonwoo disagrees, horrified. “He doesn’t even like my work to begin with, that’s totally unfair.” Soonyoung groans, leaning back in his seat until only the curve of his throat is visible. Wonwoo, ever the productive one, chooses to rack his brains for a possible candidate instead of lying about baring his neck to the world in some kind of twisted invitation.

 

“What about Seungcheol?” Wonwoo suggests. Soonyoung raises his head slightly, making Wonwoo’s chest tighten with hope.

 

“The contract mediator?” Soonyoung asks, pondering. “Fine, I don’t see why not.” Satisfied, Wonwoo springs up in his chair and hurries to light a candle by his workspace.

 

“I’ll write him now,” Wonwoo promises, hastily grabbing a piece of parchment paper and almost knocking a pot of ink over in the process. Instinctually, both boys’ hands reach out to right it, and for a moment, they freeze. Wonwoo’s fingers circle the cool glass of the bottle, hovering there. Soonyoung’s hand, stretched out a second too late, rests upon Wonwoo’s knuckle. Then, as if nothing had happened, Soonyoung pulls away with a laugh, except it’s sharp and cold enough to make Wonwoo‘s insides curl.

 

“I’ll see you in the morning, Jeon Wonwoo,” he tells him. For a moment, it looked as if he was going to reach for Wonwoo’s hand and press his mouth to it in farewell - Wonwoo had seen the anticipation in his eyes, the careful slide of his gaze over the hills of his knuckles. Eventually, he sighs, thinks better of it. He steps back, lets Wonwoo recede into himself. They settle for  exchanging quiet ‘goodnight’s as the stray melody of a street musician’s violin creeps through the open window and douses everything in a strange, mournful light. 

 

Wonwoo, stubborn as ever, stays in the bitter darkness until he finishes his letter to Seungcheol, and refuses to think of a phantom kiss pressed against the knuckle of his middle finger. 

  
  


The next morning dawns bright and cold. Wonwoo wakes in his chambers, groggy and disoriented at the overwhelming sensation of being alive and having to face another day. For a second, he allows himself the pleasure of imagining his body sinking into his mattress. He savours the sensation of disappearing, the slow numbness that creeps through his bones and makes him dull, just the way he likes it. Unable to afford the opiates of the upper class, he often finds himself settling for his own self-made suffering. Contrary to what most people would say, he thinks this is much better than using substances, wasting away both physically and mentally. After all, he knows himself best. No drug would ever be as intimate nor attentive with him as his own self-destruction. And of course, the control was dizzying - knowing he could make a decisive ending whenever he wanted, lay out all the details in perfect conclusion before making his exit. Which he would, eventually. When the world was no longer beautiful, when sunsets made him ache with sadness rather than longing, then -then it would be time to go. Today though, he blinks the sunlight out of his eyes and forces himself out of bed. He’ll live. 

 

“Finally up, I see,” Soonyoung calls scornfully, still munching eagerly on his bread as he watches Wonwoo shuffle into the kitchens.

 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Wonwoo responds, grimacing as Soonyoung opens his mouth as wide as it’ll go to reveal soggy, chewed up pieces of bread. In response to his expression of pure disgust, Soonyoung cackles. Then, busying himself with tearing pieces of bread off the loaf, he says “We’ll start after breakfast.”

 

“Fine by me,” Wonwoo sighs, eyeing the limited spread with narrowed eyes. He never had much of an appetite to begin with, and the nauseating thoughts of the past few days (months, years) have left him with a bony frame that could be easily toppled in the Florentine winds. 

 

“You should eat,” Soonyoung prompts, tilting his head to gesture at some apples next to him. “You’ll need your energy to cry when you lose to me.”

 

“Oh, screw you,” Wonwoo replies, but it lacks any real bite. 

 

“What’s wrong with you this morning?” Soonyoung asks, still busy picking off little bites of bread. Wonwoo watches his hands. He’s got short fingers, calluses on a few of them from hours and hours of gripping a paintbrush without a break. Still, they’re not ugly hands. They’re as pale as Soonyoung is everywhere else, dainty wrists fanning out into bony knuckles. Wonwoo wonders how they’d have felt crashing into his jaw, or splayed out on his bare chest just over his heart. Swallowing, he pushes the thought down. 

 

“Wonwoo?” Soonyoung asks again. Making a humming noise of acknowledgement, Wonwoo finally meets Soonyoung’s eyes. “Is everything..alright?” 

 

“Yes,” Wonwoo tells him, because it is. It’s not like the heaviness in his chest or his eyes or his feet was something new. A reluctant existence had become his modus operandi, and in growing so used to it, he failed to see how anything was wrong at all. It was a little like an addiction; maybe long ago, if someone had asked, he would’ve answered differently because the feeling was new and he was scared, so very scared of dying. But now, with his lungs full of smoke and his heart tearing a little more every day, the stroll towards destruction had turned into a dead run. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s not afraid, after all. So he tells Soonyoung that nothing is wrong because to him there isn’t - the world ends every night and starts again in the morning. It’s just the way he works.

 

“Okay,” Soonyoung replies, and goes right back to devouring his bread.  _ See _ , Wonwoo thinks,  _ I was right _ . They sit in silence for the rest of the meal.

 

“Shall we go?” Soonyoung breaks the silence a few minutes later, looking up expectantly at Wonwoo and his still-empty plate. With a vague sound of apathetic agreement, they set off - two men who want nothing to do with each other, but can’t help colliding either way. In the eyes of history, though, one might call the pair ineffable. Their greatness blossoms in the way Soonyoung scans Wonwoo’s form as they walk, his brows furrowing in concern as he notices the bones protruding from his wrists, dainty and fragile as a baby bird’s. It’s in the way Wonwoo’s gaze aches for Soonyoung every second he isn’t looking; how they’re drawn together, even when everything in them wants to resist, tells them to. Looking back, we might even be thankful for it.

  
  


“Why do you keep staring at me?” Wonwoo snaps approximately 5 hours later. They’re sitting in the gardens, supposed to be working on their sketches. Chan is posed in front of Wonwoo, his eyes wide and afraid as the sculptor’s voice interrupts the peaceful silence of the afternoon.

 

“What, am I not allowed to look?”

 

Chan pales, and swallows roughly. The artists pay him no mind. 

 

“You can look all you want if you’re ready to be nursing a black eye,” Wonwoo retorts, pressing his pencil hard into the paper.

 

“Uh,” Chan starts. 

 

“What’s wrong with looking at pretty things?” Soonyoung wonders out loud, humming. Wonwoo nearly falls off his stool.

 

“Two black eyes,” is all he says. “In case the first one gets lonely.” Soonyoung winks at him, and Chan gags. 

 

“Stay still!” Wonwoo snaps, turning back to face Chan irritably even as his ears burn. Grateful for the distraction, he clicks his tongue and tries to verbally guide Chan back to his initial position. To his left, Soonyoung giggles at Wonwoo’s irritation. Wonwoo flicks pencil shavings at him in retaliation, grinning triumphantly when a piece nearly lands in Soonyoung’s mouth. A laugh bubbles up in his chest at the sight of Soonyoung’s face souring with the proximity of his mouth to the graphite. It’s been a long time since he’s laughed like this - long enough for it to feel foreign when his mouth turns up at the corners, when his nose scrunches and his eyes crinkle. As suddenly as it came, his delight is drowned by dread; the thought that smiling has become unfamiliar to him is a heartbreaking thought. 

 

“You look so different when you laugh,” Soonyoung says suddenly, causing Wonwoo to startle again. He tilts his head in a silent question, encouraging Soonyoung to continue. “As in,” Soonyoung starts. “Your face..just brightens. And your eyes crinkle. Did you know you scrunch your nose when you laugh?” 

 

Wonwoo turns away. “Yes,” he admits. “But it’s just a silly habit I harboured as a child. I look ridiculous when I laugh now.” 

 

“Not at all, actually,” Soonyoung disagrees. “I didn’t say it was bad. Just different.” 

 

“Okay,” Wonwoo replies, but his tone is pleased. Someone once told him that to receive a compliment from a beautiful person must mean one is beautiful, too. Deep in the crevice of his chest, something stirs. Something that smells a lot like hope and rain on freshly cut grass. Wonwoo does everything he can to batter that feeling with the dull end of his mind; hope is useless to him. Feelings, unfortunately do not listen to reason, and somewhere beneath his chest a wispy flower grows. 

 

For the rest of the day, he does his best to stay silent and contained. He focuses on the precision of his sketches, trying to capture Chan’s personality rather than just his form. He lets his eyes wander uninhibited, to the calluses on the boy’s knuckles, the moles just above his collarbones. He realizes that he has no idea how old Chan is, no semblance of knowledge of his life outside the Palazzo walls. The same applies to Soonyoung; Wonwoo knows barely anything about him. He knows his last name, sure, but every other aspect of him is still as hidden as ever. He knows not where Soonyoung was born, how long he’s been painting, if this is the life he’d imagined for himself. He grimaces as he wonders aimlessly about Soonyoung’s life outside this space and this time, his apprenticeship, the years he’s spent perfecting his craft that Wonwoo consciously tears down at every opportunity. 

 

_ I’ve been awful _ , Wonwoo thinks to himself.  _ Have I always been this way? Or did this hardness creep up on me like some kind of sickness?  _

  
  


“I think I’m done for the day,” Soonyoung tells him an hour or two later, closing his sketchbook. “It might be ready tomorrow. “ And then, he strides inside without another word. Wonwoo swallows roughly, then dismisses Chan without so much as looking at him. He grips the edges of his stool, letting the roughly cut wood dig into his palms. What was he expecting, after all? Him and Soonyoung were rivals, competitors; they weren’t friends. Even if Hell froze over, Soonyoung wouldn’t invite him to dinner. How silly of him to think otherwise. Blinking rapidly a few times, he shuts his sketchbook roughly and dashes down the corridor, all the way back to the studio. He doesn’t see Soonyoung eyeing him from behind a pillar, the shadows of the setting sun doing nothing to hide the blatant worry in his gaze. 

 

Afterwards, he stalks into his chambers where he will lay awake for the rest of the night. The room is tiny, the mattress threadbare. In the far corner, a candle flickers somewhat lifelessly. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to live a life. Wonwoo’s life, after all, has been defined by the absence of excess. His collapsing shoes, a social circle that he prunes meticulously such that nothing gets in or out. He’s used to having nothing. Which is what makes it so easy to lie to himself, to say that Soonyoung’s rejection of him doesn’t hurt. What difference does it make whether or not he has him, when he’s never had anything before? It’s like trying to describe a colour he’s never seen. 

 

These, of course, are lies. He may have never consciously had, or possessed, but there are things in his life he’s called his own. Desire, for one. A primal feeling that stirs in his stomach and makes him lurch forward with the sheer force of it, like the tempest that comes as part of being alive. He’d like to think that a younger version of himself would’ve been naïve enough to chase after Soonyoung, to tail him and court him until they were intertwined in a way that saw no ending and no beginning. That part of him is gone now, obviously. The Wonwoo of now sits in his room, and thinks himself a life he can stomach living. 

  
  


“Rise and shine!” Soonyoung calls the next morning, pounding away at Wonwoo’s door. The sculptor stirs blearily, rubbing at his sleep-deprived eyes. His movements are slow and measured as he sits up, letting the weight of another morning wash over him. Again, he’s interrupted by an insolent round of banging and shouting. “Today’s the big day!” Soonyoung sing-songs. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Wonwoo shuffles to the door and wrenches it open, giving the painter what he hopes is his most deadly glare. Instead, the other man just gapes at him.

 

“You sleep shirtless? Don’t you get cold?” he stammers out, eyes bulging. Freezing, Wonwoo very quickly realises that he had indeed forgotten to tug his garment on. With a noise of panic, he dives in to quickly pull it on, sighing in relief as the cream-coloured material settles over his chest again. Soonyoung seems just as relieved at this change of pace, and Wonwoo huffs. Vaguely, he wonders if all the sight of him was tha unbearable to Soonyoung. He knew that they might not be on the best of terms, but he’d called him pretty just the day before - what’d changed? 

 

“Anyway,” Soonyoung interrupts, “I just came to wake you. Seungkwan agreed to indulge us in our competition,” he tells him, grinning.

 

“The advisor?” Wonwoo pales. “He thinks I’m rubbish.”

 

“Why does it seem like an awful lot of people think that?” Soonyoung wonders out loud, scratching his head in exaggerated confusion. Wonwoo frowns at him, but Soonyoung only grins cheekily. He decides that he doesn’t like the way his cheeks squish and his eyes twinkle with mischief - not one bit.

 

“Did Seungcheol fall through?” Wonwoo demands.

 

“His reply arrived this morning. Says he’s in Rome at the minute. Working on a contract for the Vatican, some big project,” Soonyoung informs him, and Wonwoo sighs, because of course Seungcheol is away. He almost always is, and Wonwoo dubs himself a fool for not thinking this through. 

 

“Right, okay. So Seungkwan will be judging.” Wonwoo repeats flatly, as if the repetition will make the news any easier to stomach. Soonyoung nods brightly, sealing the deal.

 

“Let’s get some food, and then we can head off to your execution,” Soonyoung declares cheerfully, linking his arm with Wonwoo’s. Instinctively, he freezes, unaccustomed to the feeling of another warm body pressed so close to him.

 

“I’m not hungry,” Wonwoo declines, trying to wrench his arm from Soonyoung’s grasp. To his surprise, the other boy holds on, steadfast.

 

“You didn’t eat yesterday either! And if I may say so myself, I’ve quite been enjoying our little rivalry. You’re...interesting company, and it’d be a shame if you were to go so soon.” Soonyoung tells him, starting to trail off towards the end. Wonwoo snorts, prompting a look of distinct unhappiness to settle on Soonyoung’s face. The other boy scrunches his nose as he frowns, as if the way Wonwoo had reacted greatly upset him. “What, you don’t believe me?” he accuses.

 

“Something like that,” Wonwoo mutters.

 

“Why?” Sooyoung asks, open and unabashed.

 

“Does it matter?” 

 

“It should.”

 

“And would that matter to you? What I think?”

 

“If it involves dashing yourself against the rocks, then yes,” Soonyoung insists, as if Wonwoo has personally wronged him. Wonwoo can only roll his eyes in response.

 

“A day ago you couldn’t stand the sight of me,” he drawls, stuffing his hands into his pockets and striding right along. Soonyoung gapes at him for a second, then collects himself.

 

“Where in the world did you get that idea? Haven’t I been calling you pretty from the moment we met?” he pesters, dashing in front of Wonwoo to stop him in his tracks.

 

“That isn’t the same thing,” Wonwoo answers coolly. “What I mean to say is you don’t like me on a personal level, and you have every reason not to. That, I understand. What I can’t reason with is,” here, he flusters. “This- your sudden concern for me. Like I matter to you.” Wonwoo says this almost scornfully, kicking at the floor as the words tear themselves from his throat. This kind of honesty is brutal, more than anything. It isn’t freeing so much as debilitating in the vulnerability it implies, and it makes Wonwoo’s head spin. He pushes his toes into the floor, hard enough for them to hurt just so he won’t feel like wrenching his soul out of his body and floating away from this moment of weakness, exposure.

 

“You’re just as human as I am,” Soonyoung finally admits. “I may not like you as a person, but I’m not a monster. Despite what you may believe,” he adds, smiling bitterly. 

 

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” Wonwoo answers carefully. “I just didn’t think you cared.” 

 

“Well, I do,” Soonyoung retaliates defensively, and the shock of his tone makes Wonwoo let out a little huff of laughter. “We’re still colleagues, at the end of the day. And I do have to tolerate you for the next 3 years at least, no matter how arrogant you prove yourself to be.”

 

“Sounds like you want our truce back,” Wonwoo feigns nonchalance, hiding the sting that the implication of tolerance carries. Somewhere along the way, he’d grown to anticipate the painter’s witty remarks, his childish quirks and his intensity. Now, he finds himself cursing inwardly at thinking Soonyoung would even return such a sentiment in light of the wrongness of his own being. It becomes infinitely easier to root out your own flaws when you’re constantly standing astride someone who’s better than you in every imaginable way. Someone had once told him that making friends meant you’d found someone who was better than you - not necessarily smarter, or more interesting - but kinder, welcoming enough that he could learn from them and that they would both be better off from such a bond. Soonyoung was most certainly kinder than him; he hadn’t aimed as low as Wonwoo had with his words, his mouth much less callous in that way. But standing next to him, Wonwoo only finds himself becoming more and more aware of how awful he’s being, how much his own words sting. This, this  _ cruelty _ is no way to live. Regret claws at the back of his throat, but he only swallows roughly.

 

“I do, but you have to actually uphold it for more than a day this time,” Soonyoung jokes, looking at Wonwoo out of the corner of his eye.

 

“I’m sorry about that.”

 

“What?” 

 

“Was I not clear enough?” 

 

“No, no I heard you. I just didn’t think you’d ever apologise to me. I’m nothing but a lowly painter who makes meaningless, pretty things, after all.”

 

At this, Wonwoo grimaces. Closes his eyes, holds his breath until he’s just giddy enough to look at Soonyoung again. Immediately, he’s overwhelmed by the same sensation of Soonyoung looking at him, seeing every single ugly part of him gnarled below his visage.

 

“I said I was sorry.”

 

“And I said I heard you. I never said I’d accept.”

 

“Well, what would it take to change that?” Wonwoo demands, frustration gnawing at the edge of his tone. Soonyoung grins far too happily, like Wonwoo’s sudden desperation for change was of his own doing. A scowl tears its way across his face instantly at the thought of someone (even Soonyoung) taking credit for something he’s had to drag himself through the mud to do, to get through. His thoughts run a mile a minute, filled with crimson and sharp edges and sharper tones - it’s only when he consciously forces a slowdown that the redness settles, that he can breathe easier.

 

_ Soonyoung is a good person, he reminds himself. I was in the wrong before. I will make amends. _ He makes himself move in this way; slow, controlled, guaranteeing some peace before he inevitably explodes again. The thought makes him flinch a little, the inevitability of his downfall rooted within an unmaking known to him, and him alone. This, of course, doesn’t mean he can’t try to be good - for now. For as long as he can manage. 

 

“I don’t know,” Soonyoung admits, chewing on his (plump, pink) lower lip. “I don’t expect you to change overnight. Maybe you could try being less..defensive?”

 

“I’m not defensive,” Wonwoo defends.

 

Soonyoung has to hold back a snort of laughter, and instead opts for clapping Wonwoo on the back. “Let’s get you something to eat.” 

  
  


One reluctant meal later, Wonwoo and Soonyoung stand alongside each other in the studio, watching nervously as Seungkwan paces. The advisor has sharp eyes and an even sharper intellect, and there’s no way in hell Wonwoo is coming out of this alive. He eyes his drawing on the table; a rendering of Chan that has his likeness but none of his friendly smiles nor his laughing eyes. Seungkwan grimaces as him as he shuts the sketchbook, shaking his head ever so slightly. How could you have produced this? is what his eyes seem to say. I thought you were supposed to be the best. Wonwoo would give anything to be able to piece together even the shabbiest defense, but even he knows that there’s no use fighting this. That all of his hardness and refusal to change have only landed him at rock bottom whether or not he belongs there is a sobering thought.

 

Moving on, Seungkwan flips open Soonyoung’s sketchbook to its marked page and is unable to hold back a gasp. Wonwoo immediately stands on his tiptoes and cranes his neck as far as it’ll go, hungering for a glimpse of the drawing that’ll well and truly knock him off of his feet. What he doesn’t expect to be greeted with is the all-too-familiar slant of a crooked nose scrunched in laughter, and a too-wide smile. Not sparing Soonyoung a glance, he dashes forwards, breathing heavily. His eyes scan hungrily over the contours of his own face, now laughing back at him in shaded layers of graphite. A moment of pure happiness is immortalised on the page, but Wonwoo couldn’t be feeling farther from it. He despises the way Soonyoung has drawn the curl of his lips when he laughs, hates the uneven ridge of his nose, abhors the childish hope on his face that he thought he’d dashed to pieces a long time ago. But most of all, he hates the way it’s the most accurate portrait he’s ever seen of himself, and yet Soonyoung has chosen to make this the thing he’ll forever be able to lord over Wonwoo. His happiness, of all things. 

 

“How could you do this to me?” he hisses, spinning on his heel to face Soonyoung. “You just wanted to use me as your next project. That’s why..”

 

“That’s why what?” Soonyoung echoes, his face disapproving yet again. It only makes Wonwoo’s chest burn hotter, the sting in the middle of it spreading out to clutch his heart in its tendrils.

 

“Why you’ve been so nice! You just wanted to coax out your next reference,” Wonwoo spits, balling his hands into fists. Instantly, Soonyoung’s face falls with hurt. Wonwoo would feel bad for being the one to put such a forlorn expression on his face, but hurt and betrayal do tend to make him much more cruel a creature than usual; instead, he continues scowling.

 

“Wonwoo, I’d never use you-” Soonyoung begins, only to be interrupted by Seungkwan clearing his throat awkwardly.

 

“I’ll give you two your space,” he acknowledges quickly. “Lord knows you need it.”

 

“Wait!” Soonyoung cries just as Seungkwan turns to leave, and Wonwoo can’t believe his ears despite knowing what comes next. “Who won?” Soonyoung asks, only it feels like the final nail in his coffin and he’s already grown tired of decaying.

 

“Why, you did!” Seungkwan informs him, looking rather ruffled at having been asked such an obvious question. Even Wonwoo has to squeeze his eyes shut, unable to bear the burden of this exchange.

 

“Oh,” Soonyoung says uselessly, but the undeniably pleased tone of his voice is enough to tell him all he needs to know. “Wonwoo, I..”

 

“Save it,” Wonwoo snaps, gathering his things. “Congratulations, Kwon Soonyoung. You got what you wanted.”

 

“Wonwoo,” Soonyoung repeats, now sounding much more annoyed than before, like he was trying to discipline an insolent child. “You know it wasn’t like that-”

 

“I don’t want to hear it!” Wonwoo raises his voice, hating the way it cracks and bends under the weight of tears that won’t spill. “Just leave me alone. Please. You’ve done enough.” His voice drops to a whisper that he has to pull from the steadily collapsing tunnel of his throat, made worse by his refusal to acknowledge the pity in Soonyoung’s eyes that have nothing but kind to him over the last few days. If things were different - if he knew that kindness was real, he might’ve stayed. Might’ve let Soonyoung explain himself, might’ve put down his guard for a second just to listen; but the rising fear of only being fed with more false kindness settles an indomitable lump in his throat, and before he knows it, he’s running out the door. He doesn’t know where his feet will take him, but anywhere is better than a city full of people who would love nothing more than to watch him fail. 

 


	4. thus thy unwonted kindness shown to me [...] threatens my life more than that agony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an ending, and a beginning.

Instead of engaging in calm confirmations or a more subdued means of solace, Wonwoo chooses to do what he does best - he runs. Out of the studio, down the never-ending corridor where the faces of Medicis past and present leer at him and all of the failures he’s made of. He eventually ends up on streets that shine blindingly bright as the sun’s rays catch the line of gold that winds down the river. Merchants call out bargains with increasingly desperate voices, but Wonwoo’s feet continue to carry him past, because no amount of gold or florins exchanged would ever make him half the man he thought he could become. No wonder his father had always been so harsh on him. For all of his tempers and his sullenness, the man was right. Riches were only one thing in the face of all the intricacies of life - he would be nothing without his talent, the one thing that made him valuable. In light of his complete unravelling in front of Seungkwan and Soonyoung, he supposes that’s what he is; nothing. It’s more humiliating than anything, in his thinking back of how he’d come spilling out of his own shell as soon as the odds weren’t in his favour. As soon as Soonyoung had unearthed that traitorous drawing of him, his fate had been sealed. The inner sanctum of his being had been put on display, and it felt strangely akin to some kind of violation, a part of him that he hadn’t permitted to exist but did so anyway. 

 

He hates to admit it, but perhaps the worst part of it all was not so much just seeing his happiness lorded over him. He’d really only felt the twisting in his gut as soon as he realised that it was  _ his _ face he was seeing - his crooked smile with its’ rows of equally crooked teeth; the too-wide forehead; the nose, broken and awkward as a piece of misshapen clay upon a sculpture. Funnily enough, he’d hoped for the longest time that his eyes were the ones that betrayed him, making him uglier in the mirror than anywhere else. The portrait, rendered from Soonyoung’s eyes, was the final nail in the coffin. An undeniable ugliness would sit over his being for the rest of his life, like a veil for a bride that no one would ever lift. For what God would ever want to witness him, unveiled?

 

As his feet pound into the uneven cobbled streets painfully, an unsolicited memory surfaces. He thinks of his mother, the tenderness of her touch as she’d gently prod at the fold in his nose when he laughed. He sighs at the dream of the crow’s feet lining her eyes, the way kindness and love had always come naturally to her. Resentfully, he sniffles. He’d inherited all his father’s sharp angles, and an even sharper tongue. The man used to spend most of his days holed up in his study, slinking out only when his hunger pangs could no longer resist the smell of the  _ torta _ his wife had made. He’d duck his head until he reached the dinner table, as if he didn’t want anyone else to witness him having to give in to needs every human being had, for him to surrender the force of his exterior just to guzzle down slices of cake. Wonwoo swallows painfully as he remembers Soonyoung’s hand on his, dragging him out so he’d finally eat something that could be considered a meal. Now, of course, the memory stings, but it hurts more to imagine a scenario where someone would take care of him without wanting something else from him. Even his father had found someone who would love (tolerate) him unconditionally - why was it impossible for Wonwoo to seek the same?

 

He slows to a halt as he reaches a narrow path that slopes upwards at a treacherous angle, uncomfortably empty of people. Despite that, he feels something lift in his chest. It’s a road he’s grown familiar with in his few years in the city, having sought it out for solace whenever the world seemed to be collapsing in on itself. He’d first found it when his mother died in his 2nd year of apprenticeship, just after one of his brothers had brought the news to him at Ghirlandaio’s studio. Still, he remembers the way the paintbrush had felt slick in his hand as his world turned sideways, everything happening like it was underwater. Mouths moved without sound, his vision blurred, and for some reason he wanted nothing more than  a slice of homemade  _ torta _ and a hug - the way she’d always greet him after a long day at the studio. It’s the realization that he’ll never have that again that sends him dashing out of the studio, away from everyone to place where he could lay bare his sorrows without the eyes of expectation staring him down. Now, he trudges to the top of the hill and seeks out his usual spot - a worn bench that gives him a bird’s eye view of the city and all it’s bridges in a row, the sun reflecting painfully off the winding river that looks almost like an open vein running through the heart of Florence. He shuts his eyes again, but the impression of a world that flares far too strongly is already set into the backs of his eyelids. He tries desperately to root himself in the crimson red of walls that he hopes will one day fill the lonely in his heart with a kind of fierce passion, even though he knows this whole incident has splayed him open in a quilt of open veins and a strangely suffocated heart. He only feels emptier than before, the colours of the world before him now duller than ever.

But a sliver of the memory of brightness and loss only brings about another round of aches, particularly when he thinks of squishy smiles and a painter who he thought knew better. And what’s he meant to do now? He thought that one day, beyond their petty rivalry, they would lean into each other for friendship, as artists usually do. 3 years was an awfully long time after all, far too long to be left alone and exchanging absent-minded small talk with someone you barely knew. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice he thought he’d long buried wonders if perhaps the reason he insisted on constantly pushing Soonyoung away lay in the facts of his existence; that Wonwoo coveted his easy smiles and his laughing eyes that seemed to always be gently teasing, never fully resentful until Wonwoo delivered one of his painful one-liners. He despises the way his own mouth curls so naturally into a frown, the way his brothers used to tell him his eyes had grown to resemble the marble he now fills his life with. The very idea of his smiles being so rare that they had to be immortalised in a sketch - by a painter no less, someone made to lie to the world - stings differently. And especially after all the things painting had done to him; simultaneously bringing him into the art world and ripping him from the womb of his family, he can’t help but feel that bittersweet wave of emotions. It might not be fair to call it resentment - after all, he does hold great respect for the technical prowess required of painting, the pain of having to render a lifeless figure full of motion alongside the precision of anatomy. Soonyoung was in full possession of both of those things, on his way to becoming a master. As a result, of course, he became a painful reminder of all the places Wonwoo had been and could be going, if only he had the guts to let himself. Or, if he could move past his past and stop holding it to his present. It takes far too much effort to remember that he’s in a different place, no matter how many times he sinks back into the old days. He isn’t in his family home in Caprese, he isn’t in Ghirlandaio’s studio, and he certainly isn’t the scared little boy he once was. But still, he tries.  _ I am Wonwoo _ , he thinks.  _ I am a sculptor. I worked hard in my youth, and now I am someone. I work at the Medici Palace with Kwon Soonyoung, the painter.  _ At this juncture, his train of thought completely derails. Soonyoung has an effect on him like that. 

 

Biting his lip with a heavy sigh, he collapses onto the backing of the bench. He’d been unfair to Soonyoung, in his every interaction. He wonders if too much time has passed for him to go back and apologise, if he’d even be accepted. It’s late afternoon by now, and there’s a heaviness that sits beneath his eyes, common for the fatigue of summertime. The sun is still high in the sky, meaning there’s much of the day to swallow still, but he doesn’t know how much more of his own loneliness he can bear. So he stands. Brushes his shirt off, tries uselessly to turn the mess of hair on his head into something presentable as he strides into the monastery on the hill that sits just a few metres behind his spot. At the very least, he’d have the comfort of divinity to make him feel less lost. Just for today.

 

The main hall of the monastery is fairly empty, with only a few monks sitting cross-legged and muttering prayers in hushed tones. Along the walls where statues of various scenes of divinity stood poised, candles flickered briefly in the summer wind that danced through the open door behind Wonwoo. Shutting it gently, he pads in, then takes a deep breath. His family had never been of the religious sort - but after working for a painter like Ghirlandaio, after spending years and years painting various versions of crucifixions and deaths and births - it was hard not to associate divinity with a kind of homeliness. Wonwoo moves forward to sit, hunched on his heels as he sighs upwards, lifting his face to a noticeably empty ceiling.

 

“What are you looking for?” a voice interrupts him, causing him to nearly fall sideways from his careful perch. To his left, a bespectacled old man watches him with curious eyes - he must be about the same age as Wonwoo’s father. 

 

“I don’t know,” Wonwoo admits, looking at his hands. “I think I wronged someone, but they wronged me too.”

 

“Were you vengeful?” the monk asks. Something in Wonwoo’s heart stirs; a fabricated memory of his father, the kind of guidance he could’ve provided if both of them had let each other in.

 

“No,” Wonwoo answers truthfully. “I just feel misled. I believed they were something they weren’t.” If the monk notices his lack of gendered pronouns, he doesn’t comment. Wonwoo heaves a silent sigh of relief before he continues. “But I made mistakes as well. They said I was too arrogant.”

 

“Well,” the monk starts, “It seems to me that you should simply ask for forgiveness from one another.”

 

“But how,” Wonwoo cries out, standing with his fists clenched. “He must hate me now!”

 

“Brothers may squabble, my boy, but don’t let it tear you apart. You were put together for a reason, yes?” the monk prompts, patting Wonwoo gently on the shoulder, even as he flinches at the use of the word ‘brothers.’

 

“Yes,” Wonwoo admits, settling. There had to be some reason, of course. There was no way on Earth that any higher power would’ve put two people as different as Wonwoo and Soonyoung together for the sole purpose of driving each other insane. 

 

“And perhaps,” the man calls, just as Wonwoo’s about to leave. “You could both grow as a result. Try to remember that you need each other, in this life. Just as you always have.”

 

“I will,” Wonwoo agrees, despite his furrowed brows at having received such a strange, almost prophetic piece of advice. And then, just as he stumbles outside into the blue light of early nighttime, he’s faced with a sickeningly familiar figure pacing the courtyard in front of the monastery.

 

He watches in confused silence as Soonyoung darts down the courtyard, away from Wonwoo and the entrance. Following behind him quietly, Wonwoo watches as Soonyoung darts to the small cemetery behind the building, stopping for only a second before he’s running around the enormous tree that stands to the left of the cemetery.

 

“Wonwoo?” Soonyoung calls, darting his head behind the tree. “I know you’re here!” 

 

“Why’re you looking for me?” Wonwoo answers from behind one of the larger headstones, causing Soonyoung to jump backwards quickly enough to almost lose his balance.

 

“Wonwoo!” Soonyoung cries, in lieu of a proper answer. Instead, he runs to him as if to embrace him, but stops just slightly in front of his figure. Wonwoo eyes him silently, not sure what to make of this turn of events. “Well, you just..,you just disappeared.”

 

“I had to think,” Wonwoo justifies, pursing his lips. “And I didn’t think it mattered to you where I went.”

 

“Wh-,” Soonyoung huffs, almost indignant. “I’ve told you before that the things you say sometimes worry me. We may not be on the best of terms now, but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t worry if you suddenly ran off. Especially now that you think I took advantage of you.”

 

“I  _ think  _ you took advantage of me?” Wonwoo repeats, his voice rising in tone as he’s faced with the very person who’d sent his blood boiling that very morning. It’s only when Soonyoung frowns at him with watery eyes that he’s reminded of the monk’s words -  _ Try to remember that you need each other, in this life. Just as you always have. _ He has no semblance of a clue as to what that second bit meant, but he figures that the crux of the matter is that he should attempt to ease up on Soonyoung. 

 

“Sorry,” he concedes, stepping backwards. “It’s been a rough day.”

 

“It was, wasn’t it?” Soonyoung tries to smile, but his eyes are still watery.

 

Unable to stand it a second longer, Wonwoo asks: “How’d you know I was here?”

 

“Seungcheol dropped by. At first, I didn’t know what to do. But he told me where I’d probably find you, so here I am.”

 

“Huh,” Wonwoo wonders, holding back a snort. “He really does know me.”

 

“I’d like to get to know you, too. If you’d let me,” Soonyoung puts forth bravely, and rather out of the blue. Wonwoo startles, only able to blink at him.

 

“Why on Earth would you want that?”

 

“Because I think we could be friends? You and I are more alike than we think, apparently.”

 

At this, Wonwoo snorts. “Let me guess. Seungcheol put this idea in your head.” Soonyoung blushes slightly at how easily Wonwoo has managed to see through him, but the way he covers the burning pink of his cheeks with an embarrassed hand makes Wonwoo’s heart skip a beat. Or two. He isn’t counting. 

 

“Well, to be fair, I already had an inkling. He just helped convince me.”

 

“And now you’re here to--what? Escort me back?” Wonwoo remarks sarcastically, softening only when he sees Soonyoung’s disappointed expressions. “Right, right, trying to be friends. Go on.” he sighs.

 

“We could walk back together?” Soonyoung suggests, biting his lip. “I’d like to make amends. On both sides,” he adds sharply, eyeing Wonwoo. When he doesn’t complain, Soonyoung simply blinks at him before he begins pulling him down the hill, back to the city now softly lit by the flames of streetlamps and the glow of the moon.

  
  


“You must be starving,” Soonyoung suddenly interrupts, just as they’re approaching the palace. They’d spent the better part of the walk back in silence, save for a few sharp inhales on Wonwoo’s part when their hands had accidentally brushed. 

 

In response, Wonwoo hums indifferently, but this only makes Soonyoung turn to face Wonwoo abruptly. He almost crashes straight into the painter, holding up his hands to steady himself. To his horror, Soonyoung grips him by the wrists almost automatically, his hands soft and warm around Wonwoo’s deathly cold hands. 

 

“You’re freezing!” Soonyoung startles, blinking at Wonwoo in concern. “We have to get some food in you.”

 

“M’fine,” Wonwoo mumbles, still trying very hard to hide his blush from Soonyoung.

 

“Okay, I’m trying to take care of you as part of my apology, so could you please just let me extend this basic human decency to you?” he fires back almost immediately, his gaze pleading.

 

“Oh,” Wonwoo replies uselessly. Apparently, this is enough to get Soonyoung on his way again, his hand still around Wonwoo’s wrist. “Have  _ you _ eaten today?” Wonwoo tries to ask casually, but it comes out stiff and formal. Soonyoung giggles at him, and just like that the tension dissipates into the night.

 

“I tried,” he admits as they stroll through the gates. “But when you didn’t come back...I was worried. I forgot.”

 

“Because of me?” Wonwoo can’t hide his surprise - last he’d heard, Soonyoung hated his guts.

 

“You were missing  _ all day, _ ” Soonyoung emphasizes. “What if something had happened to you?”

 

“You don’t even like me,” Wonwoo reasons. He’s really just trying to find his way around this, navigate these confusing waters of what him and Soonyoung are. For a second - too long a second - Soonyoung is quiet. 

 

“That’s not true,” he says, so softly that Wonwoo has to strain his ears to hear it. “That’s not true at all.” All of a sudden, Soonyoung’s voice sounds raw, absolutely shattered. “Is that what you think?”

 

“What else am I supposed to think?” Wonwoo wonders, unable to match this reaction with the man who’d stared at him defiantly across the studio table just a few days ago, with eyes and fists ready for war.

 

“I think you’re a challenge, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung admits, letting his grip on Wonwoo’s grip loosen. They’ve finally come to the main hall, its red walls lit only by the flickering balls of fire in the lanterns. “I just wasn’t sure how to get through to you.” When Wonwoo doesn’t respond, he starts up again. “You think I’d accompany you to meals and actually take you up on that challenge if I wasn’t already interested?” 

 

“I just thought you had a bone to pick with me,” Wonwoo finally mumbles, shy all of a sudden. When Soonyoung just stares at him desperately in return, Wonwoo shuffles his feet. “Really. I thought you hated me.”

 

“Well that’s funny isn’t it,” Soonyoung huffs, turning away from Wonwoo. His voice is shaking, cracking and folding down the middle all at once. “And all this time, I thought you were the one that hated me.”

 

“I was horrible to you,” Wonwoo concedes. “No wonder you thought that.”

 

“So you don’t?” The hope in Soonyoung’s voice is painful to hear.

 

“No, not at all. Not now, anyway. You- you were right before. About how I see painters. It was my own grudge to bear, and I took it out on you. That was unfair,” Wonwoo suddenly finds himself saying all this at once. He tries to keep his sentences short, to get his sincerity across in as few words as possible because Lord knows he’s always been so, so clumsy with his words - and yet they spill out of his mouth and his clay heart, unsolicited. He finds himself wanting to be on Soonyoung’s good side, now that he knows it’s a place he can reach. Before, he was under the impression that it was off-limits to him, that there was nothing he could say or do to ever right the many, many wrongs between them. ‘What use was it trying to make that place?’ he’d thought. ‘I will always stay right here.’ In his loneliness, he’d made a lodging for himself. But now here was Soonyoung with an olive branch and a cup of tea shared over a rickety table in hushed voices; and how could he ever deny himself something like this? This was a warmth he could live in - without bargaining, without conditions - the warmth of companionship. 

 

“I was horrible, too,” Soonyoung echoes, pushing the mug of steaming liquid back to Wonwoo so he can have a sip. The fire is crackling softly around them, softening the edges of everything around them with its orange glow. Wonwoo hardly notices the hard line of Soonyoung’s tensed jaw. “Don’t you agree?”

 

“Not particularly. You were only trying to hurt me when we were arguing, that day in the studio.”

 

“But what about the portrait? Come on, you’re telling me you weren’t the least bit upset when you disappeared all day after you saw it?”

 

“That was different,” Wonwoo finds himself saying, pushing the mug back to Soonyoung after drinking deeply. “I did think you were trying to hurt me, at first. It felt wrong to have you paint...me at all, honestly.”

 

“Why?” He can’t find an answer.

 

“It’s just...it’s my face,” Wonwoo tries, but the words aren’t coming. How is he meant to tell Soonyoung, who is so far him ugliness himself, the extent to which the broken features of his face never seem to fit together, no matter how many beautiful things he creates? “I’m ugly,” is what he settles for. 

 

“No,” Soonyoung breathes. “You’re far from that. But tell me, is that truly what upset you about it?”

 

“Yes,” Wonwoo replies, just as quietly. “And I didn’t expect you, of all people, to have looked at me so closely.

 

“What do you mean me, of all people?”

 

“Have you looked at yourself?” Wonwoo wonders out loud, bewildered to say the least. “You look like you could’ve emerged from the marble.” Soonyoung lets out a self-deprecating laugh at this, one that makes Wonwoo’s insides crawl.

 

“You’re a funny one, you know that?” Soonyoung tells him. The tea’s gone cold. Neither of them have the heart to get up.

 

“I wasn’t joking!” Wonwoo defends himself. 

 

“I know,” Soonyoung replies quietly, the air in the room suddenly turning serious. “Neither was I, by the way. I really am sorry about it. About everything, honestly.”

 

“Me too,” Wonwoo echoes. The words still don’t feel right. When he was a young boy, his mother always told him to apologize in his own words, not just through mimicked shadows and shades of other people’s sentiments. “I’m sorry,” he tries again. “I was awful to you. I hope we can move on.”

 

“I’m sorry too,” Soonyoung agrees, seizing Wonwoo’s hands between his own, effectively startling him out of the comforting lull of drowsiness that was beginning to settle behind his eyelids. “All this aside, we’re artists. We have to look out for each other, from now on.”

 

“Okay,” Wonwoo agrees, trying desperately to keep his eyes open now that the danger of their parting has passed. “Friends, then? For a start?”

 

“Friends.” Soonyoung affirms. Then, as quick as lightning, he brings their clasped hands to his lips and presses a chaste kiss to the knuckle of Wonwoo's middle finger. The other man freezes, his mouth hanging open. 

 

"What was that for?" he finds himself asking. He still hasn't drawn his hand away. 

 

"A special goodnight, for a new friend," Soonyoung answers thoughtfully, after a moment. "Think of it as me renewing our connection. We'll be different now, no?"

 

"Yes," Wonwoo agrees, somewhat distantly. "Different. Goodnight, Soonyoung."

 

"Goodnight, Wonwoo."

 

 

When Wonwoo goes to bed that night, he dreams only of a warm mouth and hands that wouldn't let him drown, no matter how many times he asked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. evidently this isn't complete in the way i intended to post it, BUT the good news is this painful arc is now complete for all of you to (hopefully) enjoy. i've chosen to divide the rest of the story (which there is a significant amount of) into other works that will all belong to this series. this is mainly to give this arc a sense of completion, first of all. the other reason is that the rest of this fic has major transitions in terms of setting and focus - so i figured it'd be neater to divide it rather than make all of you sit through my explanations of florence's politics and the extreme slowburn of snwu's relationship all at once. 
> 
> next: i owe my sources for this fic to The Agony and The Ecstasy by Irving Stone, an autobiographical novel of Michelangelo's life + Miles Unger's textbook Michelangelo: The Life in Six Masterpieces + my wonderful guide in Florence back in 2014, without which I could not have hoped to have had any kind of grasp on this world. and of course my wonderful Aves, my endless encyclopedia on all things Renaissance. 
> 
> thank you guys for giving this silly idea a chance, and i hope you'll stick around for the next bits, when they do emerge :') these boys still have a lot left in them, and i can't wait to share them with you.
> 
> glossary + general facts:  
> torta: a flourless chocolate cake originating from the island of Capri  
> the monastery: based off of San Miniato Al Monte, which i don't think existed at this point in time but was a beautiful lookout over Florence, just beyond Piazzale Michelangelo. 
> 
> okay, i think that's all!! thank you for giving this your time <3 as always, any kind of feedback is appreciated!


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